


Just Biology

by TakeTheShot



Category: Avengers (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, But nothing mean or derogatory, Dirty Talk, First Time, First Time for lots of things, Get Together, M/M, Nothing but nice, OR IS IT, Phil finds out he's wrong and I don't think he minds much, Phil makes assumptions, Pining, SHIELD Husbands, Unrequited longing, frustration and lots of it, long night in the safehouse, mistakes about sexuality, phil's subconscious is better at talking than he is, phlint - Freeform, sex and more sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-28 15:38:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17790098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TakeTheShot/pseuds/TakeTheShot
Summary: Agent Phil Coulson has fallen and fallen hard for his mission partner Clint Barton. His extremely unavailable, straight, mission partner. When they're together and working in the field he's perfectly capable of managing his feelings of course, but long nights in safehouses are starting to get to him. Nights just like this one in fact, when Clint's there and so gorgeous, and so close...But it doesn't matter. It can't ever happen and Phil is never going to say anything.Right?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was meant to be a short, smutty piece just to treat myself for my birthday and somehow it became this mini-epic of feels and porn. Not sorry, I like it and I hope you will too. 
> 
> It's all written my lovelies, so updates should be every couple of days. 
> 
> Do please let me know what you think, and enjoy x

>>===>>

“Wait here.”

Phil turns, moved by the strength of Clint’s hand on his shoulder as his specialist hustles past him to the door he’d just been about to open.

“Barton….” He tries, but Clint cuts him off, stern faced.

“One minute.”

Clint opens the door and moves down the small hallway in an instant, gun drawn, eyes taking in every corner of each of the rooms beyond, (two bedrooms, Phil knows, living room, tiny kitchen), all leonine grace and efficiency, all Hawkeye snap. It takes a lot for Phil to fight down his proud grin into a tolerant smile but he manages it just before Clint returns to where he’s waiting at the doorstep.

“All clear.”

Phil raises one eyebrow, “Of course it’s all clear Barton, this is a safehouse,” he says, stepping into the hall, herding Clint in front of him, “Specifically, it’s one of my safehouses, we’re on lockdown here until extraction and while I do very much appreciate your continued vigilance, the op is over so there’s really no need.”

When Clint still doesn’t lower the weapon Phil moves in close, touches him on the shoulder, softens his tone, “Hey, Clint, seriously. We’re done for today. You can relax. Trust me.”

Clint freezes a moment and then his whole body shudders, a swimmer emerging from cold water. He blinks, the tension seeping out of his shoulders, then grins ruefully round at Phil, finally holsters the gun, “Sorry Boss, force of habit. Hard to shake the day, y’know?”

“I know.” Phil shuts the door behind them and keys in the code that re-sets the deep security he always has in place when the house is occupied, feels some of his own tension leach out. They’re safe now, sealed in. “Not a problem. And as I said, always appreciated.”

“Any time.” Clint’s already in one of the small bedrooms, uncasing his bow and then hanging it, ready strung as always just in case, on the bowstand Phil makes sure will always be there for him. “So, when exactly is extraction anyway?”

Phil frowns, stowing his own weapons and tac vest in the other room, before coming back into the hall “Two days,” he calls with a secret grimace, “unavoidable delay apparently, The Trisk tells me there’s no available airspace cover right now. So I’m afraid we’re stuck here for a while.”

“Aw, no worries,” Phil can hear the shrug in Clint’s voice, “I don’t have anywhere more exciting to be anyway. And the more days between me and paperwork the better. Does this place have cable?”

He pops his head through the doorway as he asks and the blatant hope in his eyes makes Phil chuckle, “Have you ever been in a safehouse of mine that doesn’t? Though I should warn you, I do also have the appropriate paperwork here for you to start.”

Clint groans. “Of course you do.” Leaning against the doorframe he stretches very theatrically, yawning and cracking his neck, “But not tonight? Take pity on a weary agent?”

It’s a very obvious and OTT demonstration of tiredness but contrary to rumour Phil isn’t merciless. Not when certain over-dramatic archers are involved anyway. He shakes his head in agreement. “Not tonight.”

“Yeesssss. Awesome. You’re the best Phil. So, what’s the plan? Shower, food, awful movie, sleep?”” He bends down while he talks and begins unbuckling his impractical but spectacularly badass boots. 

Oh dear god.

“Sure,” Phil croaks and if his eyes snap upwards it’s only because there’s a particularly interesting damp patch on the ceiling that needs some attention and not because he’s in any way trying to avoid ogling the eyeful of perfect ass Clint has just unwittingly presented. Absolutely not. “I’ll just…go see what’s in the cupboards.”

Phil scuttles quickly into the safety of the kitchen, leans against the wall and takes a deep breath. And then another. And then he calls himself all the names under the sun, ending with ‘self-deluding, pervy old man,’ and tries very, very hard to _get a damn grip_. Which is not easy. Because while the op with it’s three days of intelligence gathering, undercover work and inevitable final fire-fight had been pretty standard, for Phil the hardest part of this or any mission is only just beginning.

Because _now_ he has to hide exactly how much he wants Clint Barton.

Fuck it all.

It’s been the same for months, for far too long and Phil knows that he really, really needs to get over it. To get over Clint. But he just doesn’t know how. How can he make feelings like these go away? 

Perhaps if the pull towards Barton were just physical then it might be easier, because then Phil would have found himself a willing partner or even just the company of his own right hand and worked himself through them until the feelings were exhausted, the sharp edges of craving dulled. But they aren’t. His feelings for Clint are not just physical. Yes, Clint’s gorgeous. Yes he carries himself with an easy, unconscious sensuality that appeals (oh, how it appeals) to Phil and yes, Clint in tacsuits? In action? He’s nothing short of beautiful. Phil is willing to confess, even if only to himself, to having had some very inappropriate thoughts involving his partner, a soft place to lie and maybe syrup of some kind... But even right from the beginning it’s always been more than that. This is more than lust.

They didn’t have the most auspicious start to their partnership. Indeed, when Fury had marched into Phil’s office one morning towing a reluctant Barton and tossed him down on Phil’s couch with no more than an exasperated,

“No-one else will handle this one Cheese, so see what you can do with him before I have to have him desked. Which would frankly be a colossal waste and probably make him even more of a pain in my ass. He’s all yours.” 

and marched straight back out, Phil had been more than a little unsure what to do with the attractive but angry bundle of agent he was apparently now meant to deal with.

Phil had sighed, Barton had scowled, but somehow, from there they’d already been halfway to easy. Barton had turned out to be the prickliest agent Phil had ever had to coach but Phil liked his humour, admired his skills and very quickly come to value his judgement. And while Barton definitely hadn’t been _at all_ interested in working with anyone to begin with, Phil’s unchanging routine of turning up exactly where and when he said he would, doing exactly what he said he would and never asking more from Barton than what he was willing to give himself had won him over eventually. The fact that Phil had taken more than one hit for Barton, authorised pizza as part of his diet sheet and gave as good as he got for sass had probably helped too. To almost everyone’s surprise before long they were inseparable, working as a well-oiled machine. 

Still are.

Whether Phil is in the field or on comms the two of them get shit done, done well and done quickly. Phil can always say where to aim, Barton can always hit the mark. They balance each other, Barton’s impulsiveness tempered by Phil’s caution, Phil’s sense of the big picture only enhanced by Barton’s eye for detail. Even the ‘arrival’ of Natasha Romanov, the infamous ‘Black Widow’, hadn’t ultimately shaken their dynamic when had Barton dragged her into S.H.I.E.L.D. and made her part of the team. If she joins them on ops, they’re brilliant. If she doesn’t, they’re still brilliant. So, yes, working with Barton is simple. Amazing. These have been some of the best, brightest most interesting and most successful years of Phil’s career, hands down and no argument.

And they gel well out of the field too, which Phil knows is rare enough. Long, dull ops and endless nights spent in safehouses can ruin even the best of partnerships but they’d never been a problem for him and Barton. Or even him and Clint, even, because out of the field Clint can almost be a different man. Still loyal, dedicated and focused when you needed him to be, but also funny, sweet and honestly a bit of a dork. While Barton in the field moves like a dancer, all fierce precision and controlled grace, Clint walks into doorframes, slouches on the couch and has broken so much crockery that Phil’s seriously considering ordering plastic coffee mugs for his safehouses. But he’s also street-smart, brave and resilient and, once you get past his guard, about the warmest guy anyone could hope to meet. And he enjoys Phil’s company. High-octane ops with instant decisions and utter trust slide easily into come-down evenings with gentle bickering over the TV remote, trading stories, playing bad card games or even just sharing an uncomplicated silence when silence is needed. So that’s easy too.

Ultimately, Barton and Clint are two sides to the same coin, adding up to make one incredible agent and remarkable man. Phil feels privileged to work with him and be able to call him his friend and that sentiment right there is the absolute _height_ and _apex_ of any feelings he’d ever intended to have. 

Unfortunately for Phil’s sanity, his heart had apparently had other ideas.

Still hiding in the kitchen, Phil sighs and starts rummaging through the cupboards, very carefully not slamming any of the doors because the search for food is not what’s frustrating him and breaking hinges won’t help. He should not be thinking about this right now, should not be turning it all over again, because what is the point? Does he just want to torture himself?

Apparently.

He can pinpoint exactly when everything changed, when his treacherous, traitorous, ridiculous heart had decided to make the best working relationship and the best _friendship_ he’d ever managed to sustain outside of bloody _Fury_ so damn complicated and basically ruin Phil’s life.

It had been a night in a safe house pretty much like this one, the evening after another successful op with the two of them at the dining table reviewing their respective actions using cutlery and condiments in place of bad-guys and agents. Clint had designated the sauce bottle to be the as-of-that-day ex-director of a crooked medical insurance firm and was moving him into place when an over-enthusiastic squeeze had popped the guy’s lid and showered Clint with ketchup. He’d just laughed and carried on the story but seconds later, when in the middle of explaining how he (the salt cellar) had had to go off-plan and surprise the bunch of forks while Phil (sriracha bottle) was expecting him down around the knives, he’d absently lifted his fingers to his mouth and licked them clean, pink tongue swiping around those long elegant bones all the while still grinning his trademark grin and talking a mile a minute, realisation had come crashing down on Phil’s head out of nowhere. He was stone cold in love with Clint Barton.

Had been for a while.

Still is.

Ridiculous.

Inconvenient.

Unexpected.

Completely and irrevocably true.

And utterly pointless.

Because Clint? He’s straight. 

Sure, it’s true, Clint does flirt with Phil, often excessively, but he flirts with everyone. He does it for intel, for advantage, for laughs, just...because. Clint's easy charm is part of who he is. Men, women, dogs even, no-one is immune to a blast of his 1000 watt attention, anyone can be the target of a ribald comment or innuendo. So if Phil himself is the focus fairly often, there’s nothing special about that. And even if some of it sets Phil blushing, that’s nothing special, no need to comment. It’s fun, it’s nice, it’s cheeky. But that’s the limit. Because the only people Phil’s ever seen him take anything any further with, actually date? They’re all women. Every single one. The few dates he’d gone on when he first arrived at S.H.I.E.L.D (which definitely Phil only knows about because staying ahead of office gossip can be vital in people management). Then Agent Bobbi Morse, who had captured Clint’s attention for several months in the days before he was even partnered with Phil and from whom he parted amicably when she was appointed to head a team of her own further north. And finally Natasha herself. She and Clint had shared a very short, very tumultuous, very loud affair that was almost more of a trust exercise and had burned itself through to a strong and solid friendship in a matter of days. All of them women. Every one of Clint’s relationships that Phil knows about have been with a woman. 

Which Phil, emphatically, isn’t. 

They don’t talk much about relationships really, let alone sex, but Clint Barton is the kind of guy who isn’t ashamed to wear his heart on his sleeve. The few ladies who’d captured his attention always knew about it and so did everyone in the vicinity. He’d watched Bobbi with puppy-dog eyes for days on end before they started dating and then once they were, waxed vociferously lyrical about her many good points to anyone willing to stand and listen. To be fair, anyone standing, willing or not. And while he’ll still happily tell anyone who asks how awesome she is even now they’re broken up, Phil remembers clearly the extra, heated edge his voice had back when it was ardour and not just affection. The same thing had happened with Natasha. Okay, over just one very intense and very demonstrative weekend, but still, nobody in the Trisk who had hearing or eyeballs or any sense of propriety had been in any doubt about how Clint had felt about her. They know exactly how he feels about her now of course, but it’s different. The heat’s burned out, but it had been there. So it stands to reason if Clint had a man, or even an interest in a man, then everyone would know about it in exactly the same way. He’d be with him, or around him or talking about him and while Clint does have a lot of male colleagues, friends even, who he trains with or goes to bars with on group nights out the only person he really hangs out with outside missions is Natasha. And Phil himself of course. So, no. Phil’s sure. All the evidence points to the obvious conclusion. Clint Barton is straight.

Which is fine, of course. Totally and utterly fine. Just also…shit. 

Because it’s one thing for Phil’s fantasy to be completely out of his league, and another all together for it to be a game he doesn’t even play.

So Phil hasn’t said anything, and isn’t going to say anything, about how his feelings have developed, because what would be the point? Clint’s friendly, and, of course, they’re friends. And he laughs at Phil’s jokes, yes, but then, Phil is funny. Clint thinks he is anyway. And if he stands between Phil and the occasional bullet, well, that’s nothing Phil won’t do or hasn’t done for him. But there will never be anything more between them than this fantastic partnership and Phil’s totally determined to live with that. To be damn grateful in fact! There’s no need to Clint to know that he ever, ever dreams of anything more, wishes for more. Not because Clint would be in any way offended or anything ridiculous like that, but because sharing the knowledge that Phil wants what Clint doesn’t have to give comes with no possibility of reward and the risk of putting up barriers in their friendship that Phil couldn’t live with. Won’t live with. And why should he burden Clint with feelings he won’t and can’t reciprocate? To make him feel uncomfortable? Guilty? How would that be fair? _It’s not Clint’s issue._ Clint doesn’t owe him anything. 

Phil’s feelings are Phil’s business and nobody else’s. 

Phil is a grown up. He can deal with them.

And he is dealing with them. It’s easy enough in the field. When there’s a job to do, clear parameters, adrenaline running high, bad guys to stop, baby agents to corral, things to manage, there’s no time to angst. Professional comes naturally then. 

But after? In the aftermath, in the come-down when the adrenaline fades away and they just hang out, wait for extraction? That’s when Phil’s starting to struggle. So much so that the last few missions he’s started trying to avoid being alone with Clint at the end, arranging last minute extractions or filling the safehouses with other agents for fear that he’ll otherwise blurt out the truth. He misses having the time with his friend but it has to be done, because those nights? 

Those nights are too hard. 

Nights exactly like this one in fact, when all his plans have failed and he has to continuously swallow down just how badly he wants to take the easy brush of their shoulders when they’re slumping on the couch and turn it into an embrace, or how the tangling of their feet under blankets when they watch a movie makes his skin sing, or how sometimes, when Clint’s grin sparkles just right during the telling of a particularly good story Phil just wants to reach over and kiss the breath out of him, finally tell him exactly how he feels because he just…just wants him so much…

Phil sighs out hard and grips the edge of the cabinets as he’s almost swept away by the wave of longing, then grimaces when he crashes hard on the rocks of reality.

No.

Stop it, stop it, stop it! This is _not_ how to behave! 

Frustrated at himself for drifting, Phil slams the last cupboard closed just a touch too hard and the wood cracks like a gunshot.

“Everything okay in there boss?” Clint’s voice rings loudly from the hall, making Phil jump.

“Yes!” Phil answers as steadily as he can manage, face burning, “All fine.” 

Damn Coulson, _get a grip_.

Deep breaths and meditation, and maybe a sizeable shot of scotch now and then. He can get over this. He can handle it. He is, after all, discretion and subtlety in a suit.

“Found any food yet? I’m so hungry I’d settle for canteen meatloaf right now.”

Phil opens the freezer and peers in, more as a distraction than anything else. He already knows what he’ll find. It’s his safehouse after all, and he gives very specific orders to agent services. “We have…frozen pizza, one of those gourmet ones, and…beer. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds perfect.” Clint calls back, “Pizza and beer after an op is totally my first choice, you know that. It’s awesome how often safehouses have it!” 

His voice fades out as he heads towards the shower and Phil reaches to twist the oven on, facepalming silently.

Sure. Discretion and subtlety. Totally his watchwords.

>>===>>


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the birthday wishes guys and for the comments, they are the best presents :) So glad you're enjoying this piece of sheer self-indulgence and thanks for letting me know! x

>>===>>

Cutting up salad isn’t quite meditation but Phil’s making it work, the careful movements of knife through leaf, the small ‘chop-chop-chop’ sounds echoing sound the small kitchen help him calm, get centred. Paying the extra to agent services for bringing in fresh stuff was definitely worth it. He feels much more like himself by the time Clint’s feet come padding up behind him.

“Aw, Phil, no. Greens?”

Phil nods without looking round, concentrating on not losing a finger to the distraction of Clint’s heat at his back. “Because you’re allergic to vitamins?”

“Hey, pizza has vitamins!” Clint huffs, “Don’t pick on pizza!”

His genuine indignation causes a smile, “I wouldn’t dare. But as we both know that ‘toppings’ and ‘sauce’ are not the only vegetable groups, you’ll also be eating salad. Without complaining.”

Another huff. “Sure sure, whatever you say boss.” And then a grin, “At least we’re only cooking for two for once. Been a while since it was just me and you, hey? It’s nice. I’ve missed it. You want me to take over so you can hit the shower?”

Phil ignores the pang of guilt that gives him. Necessary is necessary. He has to stay practical. ”That would be great.” he says calmly, “The pizza has ten minutes left and this just wants some carrots cutting…” he turns to pass Clint the knife and practical be fucked he almost swallows his tongue, not to mention his carefully prepared sanity. Because Clint’s standing with his hand outstretched for the knife and wearing nothing but a smile and his underwear. Consisting of a vest and boxers which leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. Oh good god. It’s a supreme act of willpower to hold his face straight and even more of one to keep his voice steady, “…Warm are you?”

Clint’s smile falters and he scrubs at the back of his neck in that adorable, uncertain way that makes Phil want to throw him down on the nearest surface and ravish him. That or wrap him in blankets and put him in his pocket to protect from the rest of the world forever. Or both. “Well, you know, running hot after the op. Thought a bit of air-drying wouldn’t hurt. Didn’t think you’d mind…”

“I don’t.” Phil definitely deserves an Oscar for the way he manages to keep it light, “No reason to. As long as you don’t drip on the floors. So…carrots?”

“Carrots, yeah.” 

Clint takes the knife and they swap places at the cutting board, Phil heading rapidly towards the shower because he is very, very sure that there is a brick wall somewhere that urgently needs his head to be banged against it. Hard and repeatedly. He pauses when Clint calls, 

“Hey Phil, hope I left you enough hot water man. I swear, the tanks on these places are getting smaller all the time. Next thing you know we’ll be sharing!” 

Clint laughs and goes back to cutting and mercifully can’t see how Phil bites hard on the inside of his cheek to hold in his groan as he carries on to the bathroom. Hot water or any lack thereof is not going to be a problem. Phil Coulson will be taking his shower cold.

>>===>>

An hour later, the pizza, salad and a couple of beers each have been consumed and apparently someone upstairs hates Phil even more than he had imagined possible, because Clint has decided it’s time for stretching. In the living room. Still in his underwear.

Goddammit.

It’s part of Clint’s routine, totally sensible after a day spent high in his nest but why does it have to be in here? Phil bites the end of his stylus and very pointedly does not look up from the extremely important paperwork on his tablet. Does not look as Clint shifts easily from warrior one to warrior two. Does not look at the lines of his arms going high and tight, vest riding up to show just the tiniest sliver of golden hip skin. _Does not look_ , though the movement drags at his eyes like a magnet. He’s looking at his reports, getting work done and not looking at Clint. Not, not, _not_.

“Sure you won’t join me?” Clint asks, voice coming tight with the strain of holding the pose, which does _not_ make Phil imagine how he’d sound in any other strained situation thank you very much, “It’d be good for you to loosen up after the day we just had.”

Phil shakes his head. “I’m fine, thank you. I already stretched and these reports need finishing.” God, he doesn’t mean to sound so abrupt, he honestly doesn’t. But this is becoming torturous. Damn his stupid heart and his stupid libido and his entirely stupid self.

“Suit yourself, though I don’t know how you managed a decent stretch in one of those bedrooms, they’re shoeboxes.” Clint moves to the floor and pulls his heels into his butt dropping his knees wide in what might be tailor pose but might not be because _Phil isn’t looking_ , “I’ll be all done in a minute. TV?”

“TV sounds good. Sure.” 

TV. Great. If he survives that long.

>>===>>

They settle eventually on some no-brainer action movie, mainly so they can pick hell out of all the faults the operations the ‘spies’ are running, see how many times they can catch the stunt-men being obvious. It’s familiar, easy, slouching out together on the couch and Phil finds himself finally relaxing, dropping gratefully back into the headspace of their old routine. It’s fun. Just fun. As it should be. Thank goodness.

“There! Oh come on you loser, don’t do that!” Clint crows at the screen where the main character is getting changed, “He’s wearing the same watch! What is the point of using a disguise if you don’t change your damn watch? Natasha would have his balls.”

Phil laughs at Clint’s vehemence. “Not everyone has Natasha’s eye for detail Clint.” 

“You do.” Clint never takes his eyes off the screen, “You’d see that. Oh, come on…” 

For such an offhand remark it still warms Phil. It’s nice to hear, to know he’s still undiscovered, hasn’t breached any trust, lost Clint’s faith. They’re good. He settles back into the cushions for the ‘grand finale’ of the scene, which is basically just a sequence of more and more ludicrous explosions for them to laugh at. Thank goodness the evening has reached this easy point.

At the far end of the couch Clint starts to shift in his seat, wincing. Phil ignores the first few jiggles and then has to ask, “You alright? The continuity errors that uncomfortable?”

“They’re shocking. But nah,” Clint frowns, “it’s just….” He shifts in the cushions again, “The seat here’s got some sort of lump in it. And you’ve got all the footstool. It’s just a bit…oh, fuck it. Scooch over.”

Before Phil can protest Clint scoots across the couch to invade his half of the cushions, pushes Phil up against the armrest and plasters himself to his side. Sighing in contentment he wriggles down further. 

“Much better.”

Phil chokes, just slightly, “Isn’t it a bit cosy?”

“We’ve been cosier boss,” Clint smiles up at him, “remember that time in that damn cupboard in fucking Bogota?”

Phil definitely does remember the damn cupboard in fucking Bogota. And with Clint squeezed so close, looking at up him like that, all blue eyes and thick lashes, he definitely can’t afford to remember it now. Luckily at that moment that an oil tanker chooses to explode on screen, distracting Clint,

“Seriously? Oil doesn’t even explode that colour!”

and Phil gets another reprieve. He wonders how many he can possibly have left.

>>===>>

Another hour or two and the action film has segued into some shitty late-night romcom and Phil is in hell. Has to be hell, or why else would he be getting tempted with such a vision of what he wants without being able to have it? He wonders briefly what he did in his former life to deserve this. Maybe he was a telephone salesman, one of those who call after 7pm and try to convince you to have your windows replaced. Maybe he tortured small kittens. Whatever it was, it must have been truly awful.

Clint is still stretched out, a long smear of golden warmth and melted marshmallow at Phil’s side. Or rather, on his side, because during the course of the evening Clint’s incessant wriggling has led to them both slouching further and further down into the couch, Phil propped in the corner of the cushions and Clint pretty much cradled into his chest, dozing gently. Phil’s left arm is braced against the cushions, keeping them both sitting up and his right arm is strung across the back of the sofa, keeping careful distance from Clint’s body, absolutely not holding him close.

It hurts. Phil’s very careful to tell himself that it’s just the awkward angle causing the ache in his chest, but it hurts. Maybe if he could just move a little…bit….this way…

It’s only the tiniest shift but Clint snorts, blinks, then sighs and snugs himself down deeper, nuzzles down into the hollow of Phil’s shoulder, throws one knee up and over Phil’s thigh, pressing a solid weight dangerously close to his groin. He’s still dozing, smiling sleepily, hand lightly twisted into Phil’s shirt. Phil can’t stop staring down at him, this amazing creature lighting him up, stealing all his warmth. He’s gorgeous. He’s absolutely gorgeous. Clint wriggles again, sighs so lightly, the breath of a fucking angel, and both Phil’s heart and his dick experience a sudden, devastating rush of blood. 

He can’t. He absolutely cannot do this any more.

“Clint.” He pushes at Clint’s shoulder, more sharply then he means to but there is not time for subtlety here, it he doesn’t get the hell off this couch he’s going to confess or cry or, or… _something_ , “Clint, get up. Up, I’m going to bed.”

“Wha..whazzat? What?” Clint blinks sleepily and sits himself up, hair adorably mussed on one side, “Phil? Y’okay?”

“Fine. Just tired.” He’s already heading out of the room, cannot, will not look round, “Goodnight.”

“Oh. Okay.” Behind him there’s a thump as Clint apparently hits the couch again, “G’night.”

>>===>>

The bedroom is huge and dark and the house is silent. About ten minutes after he left there’d been a bit of a kerfuffle in the living room as Clint made his own way to bed and then another twenty minutes of shower noises. Though why he’d need another shower when all he’s done since the last one is take a nap on his human mattress Phil doesn’t know and _isn’t thinking about_. And since then, nothing. 

Phil can’t sleep. 

He’s angry, lost and half hard, lying seething at himself in the dark, wondering how something as simple as a friend falling asleep on his shoulder could leave him feeling so damn desolate. It’s not fair, none of it, not to either of them. He aches, all over, top to toe, and the hot line of his cock lying plump and stupid against his thigh, still apparently besotted with the warmth and weight of Clint, is helping with absolutely nothing. He could, he supposes, sort at least that out. The bedside table has the standard issue top drawer kit of condoms and lube, S.H.I.E.L.D. being well aware that its agents are often very physical creatures, that post-mission adrenaline come-down takes people in different ways and that it’s always better to be safe than sorry, so he could at least alleviate that frustration. But it feels too cold. To take himself in hand when the hands he wants are just the other side of the very thin wall, to have to bite his lip into silence so that the person whose name he wants to call doesn’t have to know, it feels too damn lonely. Disrespectful even. He can’t bring himself to it. 

So he turns his back angrily on the damn drawer, on the world and runs admin numbers in his head instead. Numbers of bullets fired in each department per calendar month, amounts of files bought per office, the colour-coding system of the after action report archive, statistics dry enough to bore anyone to tears and drive him into the arms of sleep. He hopes.

Phil screws his eyes shut and prays as sleep advances, prays to anyone or anything who might be listening that he doesn’t have to dream. Not tonight. If he can’t have things the way he wants, can they just be how they were before his stupid heart turned? Just once, can he have some peace? 

Please?

>>===>>

There are hands. So many hands. The light is soft red and the air is warm and there are so many hands. Phil stretches out into them, finds himself welcomed on every inch of his skin. 

“What?” he asks but they shush him, soothe him, those hands everywhere, each one sparking trails of delight as they stroke him. Phil bucks up at each touch, moaning, pleading.

“Who?” he tries next but there are only laughs and caresses and hands and he knows, he knows, he just knows.

Hands, turning him, stroking him, holding him, loving him, hands in his hair, on his sides, circling his wrists, in his mouth, on his ass, gripping his cock, so many warm and wonderful hands and every single one of them belonging to…

“Clint.” he murmurs and the answer comes back, yes, Clint. And it’s alright, it’s alright because it is Clint and he’s here and Phil’s here and they’re here and he’s wanted, Phil’s wanted, finally, finally, wanted just as much as he wants.

They lay him down on soft silk and there are mouths now too, all Clint too, Clint biting, kissing, licking, tasting. It’s a sensory invasion and all Phil can do is float into it, let the mouths and the hands and Clint do what they want. And apparently what he wants to do is plenty. 

In the warm, red world, Phil loses all sense of up down, in or out. Every part of him is being touched, worshipped, and when he reaches out into the empty air his own hands are filled with glorious soft skin over hard muscle, with curves and heat and perfection, with willing perfection, with hot weight and wonder. He calls again, “Clint!” and teeth are at his throat, nipping, soft lips come to take away the sting and hands drop lower, stroking, teasing. There’s heat, racing, rapid heat for him to sink into and he does, the whole world, the whole universe becoming tight hot clench. He plunges himself into it over and over and over and everything smells like sex and sweat, like Clint, like _please_ and _yes_ and _thank you…_

There’s an edge now, a cliff, a blaze of light and he’s racing towards it, Clint’s hands are pulling him towards it, and it’s close, so close, so fucking close, he’s almost there,

“Clint…” 

almost, _almost_ , 

“Clint!” 

and he throws his head back at the brink and cries, 

_“Clint!”_

**“COULSON!”**

The bellow comes from nowhere and breaks the whole world. The red light snaps off and Phil flails upright to his knees, sheets and blankets of the hard safehouse bed tangled round his legs, his eyes fly open into the shock of a flood of yellow light from the safehouse corridor and, god fucking dammit _**why** _, fucking Agent Barton standing in the fucking doorway. 

_Fuck fuck fucking dammit god jesus shit fuck no. NO._

Barton’s a statue against the light, tall, broad, bow in hand, drawn, arrow nocked and ready to take down any threat, even still in just his underwear the very picture of deadliness. Except for his face which is just a scattering of black holes, his eyes and mouth dropped blank and wider than Phil has ever seen them. 

And Phil is kneeling in the middle of a very rutted bed, his chest still heaving, his oblivious cock very obviously tenting out the front of his damp sleep sweats, the air hot and ripe, the last letter of Clint’s name still trapped behind his teeth. One of his goddamn hands is still stuck in his fucking waistband. Caught, literally, in the act. 

Their eyes lock for a second of supercharged silence, nothing but the sound of ragged breaths and then Agent Barton snaps off and Clint leaps back, 

“Shit! Sorry, sorry Phil….I thought I heard you…” he hastily drops the bow and un-nocks the arrow, slinging roughly it back into the quiver he’s obviously just thrown on round his boxer-shorted hips, “no, no, I mean, I did, I did hear you calling, you were calling, so I thought you wanted…shit!” his face flares scarlet and he fiddles with the quiver belt, unsnapping it and flinging it away into the corridor, “No, I mean….I thought you needed, aw, god, I wouldn’t have, I wouldn’t…fuck." 

Phil for his part rips his hands free and scrabbles back up the bed, hastily pulling the sheets up over his lap to cover himself and the inappropriate appendage which still hasn’t gotten the message and _gone the fuck away_. “It’s fine Clint, fine,” he tries desperately for dignity, “understood, no harm done, thank you, but as you can see I’m fine. No threat. I was asleep, so I must have been…dreaming.” Oh shit, like that’s the best word he could have picked, “Sorry I disturbed you.” 

“Dreaming?” Clint’s brow furrows, “But you called. You _called_ me. I heard you, I know I did. My name. Definitely.” His eyes drop helplessly to Phil’s lap where one of his hands has apparently strayed back close to the tell-tale bulge. Phil follows his gaze, sees, snatches the damn thing away, folds his arms behind his back. 

“Yes, well.” he coughs a mortified half-laugh because it’s that or vomit, wishes fervently for the bed to spontaneously combust, “The brain does funny things when you’re asleep I suppose. Mission come-down, adrenaline lag etcetera. And I have spent the last three days with just you so, it’s probably just a……” what the fuck is he going to say here? What in hell can he say? “…a….function of biology. That’s all, Clint. Just biology.” 

Shit, that’s the worst excuse anyone has ever given in the history of excuses. 

Clint eyes him for what seems like an ice-age and then nods slowly. “Biology. Okay.” 

He turns to go but there’s something so strange, so closed-off in his face that it fills Phil with a kind of dread and he can’t help calling after him, “I was _asleep_ Clint! Dreaming.” He knows it sounds like pleading but he can’t help it, “You can’t hold a man accountable for what his brain does when he’s asleep. You can’t hold a man accountable for dreams.” 

Clint stops. Bends down to very carefully prop his bow between the wall and the tiny bookcase, leans heavily against the door frame. Phil watches as he stands, perfectly still, without looking round then sighs, long and low and drops his head, some decision made. “I know that,” he says, roughly, and when he turns he’s still not looking at Phil, “but what if I want to?" 

>>===>>


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so happy about the way you guys received the last chapter, thank you and for everyone who asked, of course I'm going to sort this mortifying tangle out for them. You remember this was my birthday gift to myself right? Well, who wants anything other than two chapters of smut with feels? Not me...
> 
> It begins here :) Enjoy x

>>===>>

It’s an arrow to the chest. Phil’s heart shatters, fills his mouth with broken glass. 

“Well then,” he chokes and the words scratch at his throat, sharp-edged and vicious, “in that case, when we get back to base you’ll need to fill in an E61incident form and, and…I’ll have you transferred to another handler. I’m sorry Clint. But it shouldn’t take very long to find you someone…”

“What?” Clint’s head snaps up, eyes somehow even wider, “That’s not…that’s not what I meant.”

Phil’s at a loss. He spreads his hands, empty, “Then...what?” 

“I meant,” Clint moves slowly back into the room, “what if I want to _hold you to account…_.What if I want…what if…if I…” he reaches the foot of the bed and sinks to his knees, “…aw, dammit Phil. What if I just want to hold you?”

Someone has sucked all the air out of the room. 

“What?” Phil squeaks.

“What if,” Clint asks this question more slowly, carefully, each word weighted, “what if I want to climb up on this bed and hold you? Or kiss you.” his eyes flash when he looks up, “What if I want to kiss you Phil?”

Phil flounders, he honestly does, because he has absolutely no answer to the question. His entire body thrums with the ‘YES!’ he ought to be shouting but it doesn’t make sense, it really honestly doesn’t and while he’d love to be sophisticated and controlled right now the world is tiling on its axis and all that blurts out of the maelstrom is, “But you’re _straight._ ”

Clint stares at him, “You think I’m…” he barks a harsh, strained laugh, shakes his head “Has that been why…? Oh, fuck it. I’m not you know. God, I’m totally not.”

There goes the world again. “You’re…not?”

“No.” Clint rises, moves to perch on the end of the bed. The mattress shifts under his weight and Phil jerks, his cock, which had finally started to give up on the evening, twitching interested again against his thigh, “This is how we have this conversation? Jesus.” Clint takes a breath, “ I had a boyfriend for a while, back in the circus. Luca. Acrobat. One of the travelling acts. We were young, scared shitless half the time and clueless. There isn’t a whole lot of time or privacy when you’re performing and they only stayed half a season so we didn’t get much beyond, y’know, kissing, but he was definitely not a girl.” Clint touches the sheets as he speaks, tracing deliberate patterns on the thin cotton. Phil’s mesmerised by the glide of his fingertips. “Neither were the few townies I met round the back of the wagons after a show. Not all of them anyway. There were a couple’a years when everyone wanted a piece of the star performer and I was full enough of hormones that I didn’t mind sharing, y’know?” 

Phil blinks as the sudden image of a younger Clint surges in, filling his head. Clint, leaner, ganglier, but no less beautiful, (Phil knows, he’s seen the pictures) all purple sequins and smudged eyeliner, Clint, lounging arrogantly back against wooden walls with some anonymous body kneeling at his feet…fuck, it boils under Phil’s skin, twists his stomach for a million reasons and he balls a fist, nails biting into his palm. The pain blurs the picture and that’s good, because Clint is still talking and this is _important_ , he needs to be _listening_. 

“It was easier with girls, easier to catch an eye, easier to get Barney to clear out of the trailer for an hour, but sometimes….” Clint breaks off, takes a second,” Then of course it all went to shit and I was on the run so hook-ups weren’t exactly my first priority, then S.H.I.E.L.D. and Bobbi and Nat and I can see why you….but no, Phil. Not straight.” He says it softly, “You could have asked.”

He looks up at that and oddly this time Phil feels himself blushing, “I didn’t…it wasn’t the kind of thing we talked about.”

There’s a flash of something dark and fierce in Clint’s face, “Yeah, well, maybe it should have been.” He twists round so that he’s half leaning, half kneeling on the bed and Phil’s heart starts pounding like it wants an escape route, “Because, for the record, the fact that my last two partners were both women was more like coincidence than preference. Women are awesome, those two especially, but they aren’t all I think about.”

Phil’s throat’s dry with disbelief and terror and he swallows hard, “No?”

“No.” Clint drawls, and he starts moving as he speaks, crawling up the bed towards Phil on all fours like a predator, “They’re not all I think about at all. And my god Phil, I’ve been thinking about you.”

He can’t mean….can he?

The burn of Clint’s stare makes Phil dizzy and when he manages to drag a breath in it shudders through his entire body. 

“Yeah?” the question comes out almost soundless.

Clint keeps coming. Every time he moves the bed shifts and Phil can’t catch his balance. The world swings.

“Yeah.” Clint breathes it, and he’s suddenly close enough that the breath blows soft against Phil’s skin, rippling him with goosebumps “You’ve noticed, you have to have noticed. There’s been nobody for me since Bobbi except Nat and nobody since Nat at all. Because of you. Because I can’t stop thinking about you. Do you need me to, y’know, spell it out Phil? I _want_ you. 

Phil can’t, he can’t process that, that those words have been said and Clint isn’t giving him any time, he’s still talking, still stalking closer and closer,

“Shit, I never said anything, never dared, because why would you be interested in me that way? Been working so hard to hide how you make me feel, Phil, for so long, you have no idea. But then, just recently there were a few times when I thought I saw something…like, maybe, just maybe you were thinking about me too. Couple’a nights after ops there were moments…. So I thought, maybe if I could get you to look at me I’d know for sure. And maybe then I’d get the guts tell you…If I could just get you to look. I mean, seriously, do you think I usually run around after ops half naked?”

Phil tries to reply, it comes out hoarse, “Actually, I’ve seen you several...”

“Not like this.” Clint growls, “Not with _intent_.”

He’s reached the top of the bed and crawls over Phil, caging him with his arms and legs. Not a centimetre of their bodies are touching and every inch of Phil’s skin is in danger of setting on fire.

“I was so obvious today, so sick of wondering. But you didn’t look at me Phil, did you? Not like that, not once. Was half convinced I‘d imagined it. Until tonight.” Clint chuckles, low, rich and dark, “Because I didn’t imagine it did I? Tonight, this,” his gaze rakes deliberately down to Phil’s lap and back up, “proves it. I was right. I want you and you want me. There’s no need to deny it now.” He laughs softly again, “It’s just biology. So why don’t we both have what we want?”

Phil can’t answer, his heart is in his mouth, stopping his tongue.

“Phil?”

He’s breathless, hard enough to pound nails, practically burning and dying to accept everything he’s apparently being offered, but something holds him back. Clint’s words, his own words, given back to him. ‘Just biology’. If this happens, if he lets this happen, how can it ever be ‘just’ anything?

“Phil?”

Clint rocks back on his heels, taking his heat with him and the air rushes back, cold. Clint’s mouth twists, the dark swagger of moments ago dropping away into uncertainty, “Phil? Have I read this wrong? Tell me if I have. And I’ll go. Tell me no and I’m gone, we never have to mention it again, but Phil, jesus, say something.” 

He looks vulnerable suddenly, afraid and that’s not fair, not right. Not right at all. Fuck it, Phil’s waited so long without any hope and if this is his chance then, damn it he’s only a man and he’s going to take it, whatever happens. 

He meets Clint’s eyes. Tells him “No.” and before Clint’s face has time to fall, “No, you haven’t read it wrong. I do want you. I want you very much.”

Clint’s smile lights up the whole bed. Phil opens his arms and Clint falls into them, his lips brushing Phil’s ear, “Then take me.”

It’s not so much an instruction as an incantation and Phil is entirely enchanted.

He winds his hand into Clint’s hair, pulls him round until their mouths meet in a desperate kiss. It’s messy, uncoordinated, perfect, a hot clash of teeth and tongues, a frantic race to taste and devour, to invade and conquer and it seems like neither of them remember the need to breathe for long minutes because the need to keep each other close is that much more urgent. When they do come up it’s just a second’s snatch for air and then they’re back, diving into each other like drowning men. Phil bites Clint’s lower lip, swallows the moan he makes when he sucks on his tongue. They’ve landed side by side and Phil claws at Clint’s ass to bring him closer until they’re tangled further together, his leg between Clint’s thighs and Clint’s between his. He savours the sound of another hot moan as Clint’s cock pushes against him, a long line of solid heat. He kicks his hips forward, rutting them together, and the friction is fucking blissful against his own cock, for a moment he’s blinded by stars. For a few frantic seconds Phil drives his hips into Clint, Clint half crying, half grunting against his throat, and then crushes them tight together, holding the back of Clint’s neck and rocking into him while he claims his mouth again. It’s sweet, sweet and almost overwhelming, he doesn’t know how to stop, so it’s almost a relief when Clint’s hands start plucking at the hem of his t-shirt, his words muffled by Phil’s need to keep tasting his incredible lips, 

“Jesus, jesus god, let me look at you, Phil, I need to see you, let me look at you.” 

Phil leans back at the plea, sits up as little as humanely possible and strips off his shirt, tosses it away somewhere, and who the fuck cares where because across the bed Clint is doing the same. _Jesus_ the sight of him…, Phil could lose his mind. He’s an Adonis come to life and only improved by the scars, the flaws that prove the humanity, the reality behind the perfection. Phil hisses through his teeth, a heady breath of pure lust,

“Fuck, Clint, you’re so bloody beautiful…” 

“You too Phil, so’re you…” 

Phil loses the end of Clint’s words as he falls on him in an avalanche of need, runs his hands up the strong planes of his back, palms the tight, smooth curves of the shoulders he’s quietly admired so many times. They fill his hands like a gift from the gods, like they were made for his touch. It’s a worship he’s long held back and it’s heady in release, Phil’s drunk on Clint. Clint squirms under it, whimpers when Phil leans down and kisses his way down his chest. Phil grins when he finds a hard pink nipple with his mouth, strokes it first with his tongue and then nips gently with his teeth until he has Clint panting, 

“fuck, fuck, fucking hell!” 

his own hands clutching desperately at Phil’s sides. His reaction sets Phil to burning so he does it again, tasting and teasing the soft skin, moaning into it when Clint claws lightning down his ribs. It’s all amazing, all wonderful but ultimately Phil wants Clint’s lips, wants that connection, so he rolls onto his back, pulls Clint over onto him and slots their hips back together as he kisses him deep and soft and slow until they’re both whining into each other’s mouths. It’s bruising and brilliant. Phil could happily stay here for the rest of his life, safe under Clint’s weight, losing himself in his heat, so when he breaks away and buries himself in the hollow of Clint’s throat, sucks a row of messy kisses along his collarbone it’s understandably a while before he notices that Clint’s gasps have actual words in them,

“ah, Phil, Phil, not that this isn’t, ahhhhh, _fuck_ , awesome, because it is, but nnggh, Phil! Phil, is this what you were dreaming about? Phil, is it?”

Phil groans into Clint’s throat again, a rush of heat melting through him because it isn’t not, not quite, but that’s too much to think about this soon. Isn’t it? Not fifteen minutes ago they hadn’t even _kissed_ for god’s sake, he can’t imagine more, “Doesn’t matter.” He mutters it against Clint’s damp skin, wet from his own tongue, pulls him tighter, “Not, ungff, important right now.”

Clint pulls away, braces himself up above Phil, flushed and smirking when Phil arches into the suddenly empty space, moans at the loss of touch, “I think it is. And I want to know. What were you dreaming about?” he peppers Phil’s face and throat with tiny pecks of kisses as he teases, runs his tongue around the shell of Phil's ear until he has him whining, “Come on, boss, What was it?” He shifts his weight, slides one hand down, down Phil’s fevered torso, his fingertips an agonising trail of sparks that tease Phil’s hip, slide just under his waistband. “Was it this?” Clint rubs the heel of his hand lightly over the fabric covering Phil’s straining cock. Phil bites back a shout, which seems to please Clint immensely. He pouts a smile and rubs another firm, warm circle, pressing against the cloth as if he can burn right through it to Phil’s flesh, “Was it? Were you dreaming about giving me your cock? You were, weren’t you? You were dreaming about being inside me. You were dreaming about fucking me.” He leans down low, his arm starting to shake and whispers against Phil’s lips, “Weren’t you? You were here, in the dark, here, I was just a wall away, and you were dreaming about fucking me.”

Oh god, he was, and he is, but he can’t ask for that, surely, surely he can’t,

“I…” Phil’s whisper sounds broken even to his own ears. “It’s too soon, too much…”

“It’s not.” Clint says it with fierce, needy insistence, like making Phil admit it really matters, “Tell me. Say it for me.”

Clint’s need is like gentle ropes and Phil’s helplessly tied by it. His hips buck upwards, straining towards Clint and he moans, barely able to make words, “Ohhhh _god_. God, Clint, I was. I was dreaming about fucking you.”

Clint rewards him with a kiss like a firebrand, a rough thumb circling the damp tip of his cock, “And do you want to? Do you want to?”

Phil clenches his eyes shut against the wonderful wet drag of it, the sudden rush of images, the madness of wanting to _take_ and _have_ and _keep_. Clint’s pulling the truth out of him and he’s almost terrified by how much he wants it, how good it feels to finally say it, “Yes. Oh, jesus, yes. Of course I do, yes…”

The hand lifts, leaving behind a sudden aching stillness, “Then do it.” Out of nowhere Clint’s voice has a tremble in it and Phil looks up at him, he’s flushed pink, biting his lip, dirty talk silenced, shivered away by the tremble happening there too, “Please, Phil. Christ, please.”

>>===>>


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you for all your awesome comments, I'm so glad you're joining me on this self-indulgent journey and enjoying it!
> 
> Hope you enjoy this too xxx

>>===>>

Oh. 

Oh, _god_. That’s not the voice of someone offering five minutes of mutual pleasure, that’s not, that….that sounds like someone offering his _soul_. Phil feels like he’s lost his already.

He lifts one unsteady hand to Clint’s cheek and Clint leans into it with a soft sigh even despite the way it’s trembling. His eyes drift closed, Phil holds him like the precious gift he is, “You want me to…?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Clint, there’s other things we could…plenty of other things, we don’t have to…”

“I know.”

“You’re sure?”

Clint nods against his palm, “Yes.”

There’s no way Phil is going to live through this, it’s too much, too huge, his heart will burst. But he just loves this man and he wants to love him, needs to love him, however he asks.

“And…” It’s awkward to ask, here, now, but he needs to know, needs to take care of Clint properly “have you ever…had…?”

“Fingers.” It comes out in a quiet rush, “Mine, mostly. The odd… toy. But never…” Clint opens his eyes again and the tremble is still there, but there’s a touch of trademark Barton sparkle too that re-lights the fire in Phil’s veins, “You’ll be my first Phil. I want it to be you.”

“Oh. Ohhhh, godddd...” Phil groans. He’s not old fashioned, he’s not, it doesn’t _matter_ who Clint has been with, or what he’s done before, it really doesn’t, but the thought, the very _thought_ …it hits something deep and dark and possessive down in his very soul and sends it spiralling. There’s a moment of pure, triumphant vertigo and with that rush and with the way Clint’s looking down at him, all blue eyes and honesty, there’s absolutely nothing he can do except reach up and pull him back down, demand with another groan, “God, Clint, come here, come here right _now_ ” and kiss him long and hard and sweet as he possibly can, sliding the tip of his tongue along Clint’s smile. 

Clint shivers, breathless, “Is that yes?”

For an answer Phil wraps Clint firmly in his arms, twists his weight and flips them, pinning Clint to the mattress so he huffs in surprise. He leans low and mouths the round of his shoulder, along the ridge of his collarbone, sets his teeth into the joint of his neck, worries it gently until Clint’s gasping. “Yes,” Phil tells him, growling, “It’s yes, baby. Yes.”

It comes from nowhere. ‘Baby’. Phil can feel Clint mouthing the word as he works his way up his throat back to his mouth, can taste the shape of it against his tongue and maybe that was a step too much, too far? But apparently not because all at once Clint’s gone to syrup underneath him, melting, moaning into his mouth, the sweetest, urgent little noises humming against Phil’s lips, his hips rocking up in time with his tongue. Phil soothes a hand down his side, “Shhhh baby, it’s alright, you’re alright, I’ve got you. If that’s what you want, then yes, of course yes.” and Clint shudders his limbs loose again. All that push becomes pliancy, plush and yielding and Phil has the sense that he’s being given back the reins of whatever this glorious thing is becoming. He is fine with that.

God, is he fine with that.

They kiss for a long and lush time. Now that they’ve laid the endgame out on the table there doesn’t seem to be any need to rush towards it. So Phil just lets himself enjoy lying over Clint, giving him the slightest bit of weight as he licks his way back into his mouth. The heat of him, the sweetness, the way he squirms… Phil leans on one elbow, winds the other hand through Clint’s hair again, pulling it gently through his fingers just to feel the way it makes Clint’s hips kick, to hear his soft gasps. It’s entirely possible he’s going to be addicted to the noises Clint makes and to making him make them. Clint’s hands skim up and down his spine, across his shoulders, all feather-light fingertips making patterns of sunshine and chocolate and it keeps him buzzing on an edge so far beyond arousal that nothing matters but the fever of Clint’s skin and the need to make him fall apart. He tugs again, harder to get a louder gasp, then does it again and again, trailing all the way down behind Clint’s ear to tease at the fine hairs at the nape of his neck until he’s practically vibrating under his hands.

“Phil, oh, jesus, Phil, I want, I want…”

“Shhhhh…” Phil traces up and along the taut line of Clint’s jaw, scratching lightly through the scruff just appearing there, then brings his thumb up to smear across Clint’s bottom lip, plump, kiss-bruised and shining, “Look at you,” he marvels, “just look at you…oh, _fuck_ ,” it bursts out of him as Clint darts and captures his thumb in his teeth. He sucks it into his mouth, his tongue twisting round it, teasing at the base, the sensitive web between his thumb and forefinger, and that should not feel as insanely good as it does, “Fuck,” Phil chokes, “I should have known you’d be a menace…” 

Clint somehow manages a smug grin but Phil has a few tricks of his own and he shifts his weight, leaning more into Clint’s pelvis, pressing his cock against the hot bulk of Clint’s and grinding them together. When Clint sucks in air Phil retrieves his thumb and then shifts again to lift himself entirely and kneel up over Clint’s hips. Clint whines at the sudden lack of pressure, pouts adorably, but when Phil leans over to the bedside table and rifles through the drawer he’d so thoroughly rejected just hours ago his face changes, the sulk swapped for tense anticipation. It takes a second but eventually Phil snags what he needs and drops it down on the bed by Clint’s hip. Clint cranes his neck up to look at Phil’s haul, one tube, one foil square and he swallows hard, throat working. Watching close, Phil sees the blood jump sudden in the tight skin under his jaw and lifts an eyebrow in silent question. For an infinite, aching pause he forces himself to hold still, totally still, until Clint swallows again, shivers, nods.

Instantly Phil covers him again, presses his mouth to that pulse point and lets his own shudder free, knowing that Clint will feel it as it wracks him, hopes it will let him know just how much he’s feeling too, “Baby,” he says, and it’s a blessing, a benediction, a balm, because he can’t quite believe still that that this is happening, that they’ve somehow made it to this point, “Oh, Clint, baby,” he whispers, the start of all the words he’s swallowed for so long, “you’re so lovely. I want you, want to be in you, you don’t know, so badly. God, I want to make you feel so good…”

“Please.” A murmur is all Clint manages but it’s enough. 

Moving slow enough to tease but not to torture, Phil works his way down Clint’s body, kissing, licking, loving it from throat to collar bone then to the swell of Clint’s chest, outlining the strong muscles there with his tongue while Clint gasps and wriggles, held firmly in the grip of Phil’s knees, his teeth. His ribs are next and Phil sweeps his tongue along the lowest to the point of Clint’s breastbone then down from there, sliding himself back and delivering wet kisses until he reaches Clint’s sculpted stomach and his bellybutton. He sticks his tongue in it and swirls, just to see if Clint will squeal, and he does, a loud,

_”Fucking hell Phil!”_

but he also bucks wildly so that the bulge of his cloth-covered cock knocks Phil on the chin. It seems as good an invitation as any for Phil to sit back a little further, to pin Clint’s legs, to turn his head and rub his cheek against the stretched, damp cotton, to turn Clint’s complaint into a long, drawn out, “Philllllaaahhhhnnngghhhhhh,” of surprised pleasure. Phil hums happily, scrapes his teeth against the soft material, pressing harder into the flesh beneath when Clint whimpers. The little noise goes straight to his own cock and it jumps urgently, as if accusing him of neglect. It aches but he hasn’t a hand to spare, he’s wanted far too long to be touching Clint like this, to be the one making him make those noises, so he contents himself instead by sliding across, slotting one leg between Clint’s and rutting against his thigh. He keeps it light, pleasing himself with the barest of friction and only for few moments before he kneels back up. His body shouts at him because stopping is awful, but necessary and also amazing. He’s burning in the best way and he has other, much more important, things to think about right now. Kneeling makes it easier too for him to hook his thumbs into the band of Clint’s boxers and tug and when Clint takes the hint, lifts his hips, Phil strips them down, over one knee and then the other and drops them away. Freed, Clint’s cock jumps against his stomach, a beautiful fat curve, flushed proud purple and already leaking a shining trail onto his belly. He’s gorgeous. Phil sighs, licks his lips.

“Oh, look at you baby, look at you. You’re so hard aren’t you? Is this for me?”

“Yes,” Clint croaks, “for you. Just you.”

“Good.” Phil leans close again, his breath makes Clint’s cock twitch and that sends a rush of lust right through him. He smiles into Clint’s belly “I wonder sweetheart, do you taste as good as you look?”

“Jesu…ah!” Whatever Clint might have answered gets cut off by a garbled yelp when Phil licks him root to tip, sweeping the flat of his tongue up until he can lick around Clint’s cockhead and suck it into his mouth. The hot plum of it fills him perfectly, resting heavy and delicious on his tongue.

“Oh, fuck fuck fuck,” Clint babbles as Phil slides slowly down, winding his tongue against and around his length until he has as much as he can take. He wants to take the whole thing, to open his throat and take all of Clint down, to ravish him, lavish him with the attention he deserves, wants to own him and break him down. He could do it too, he could and it would be worth the work but he only gets to give a couple of long, luxurious pulls before Clint’s hands are scrabbling against his hair, 

“Phil, Phil, please, god, you have to stop, please,” Clint sounds strained, pained, “stop.”

Right away Phil slides Clint free, looks up at his flushed face, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, jesus, nothing,” he pants, “But if you keep doing that I’m gonna lose it, gonna lose it right away,” he looks shy suddenly, “and you said…”

The need is naked in Clint’s voice and it pulls on Phil, claws in his soul, “I did,” he agrees, leaning down again to suck one last lingering kiss to Clint’s very tip, “I did say. Whatever you want baby. I’m yours. Anything you want.”

Clint writhes, groans, “Just want you.”

Phil’s gut clenches, a hard knot of joy and desire and fucking divinity, “You’ve got me. I’ll take care of you.”

“You always do.” Clint says simply, dropping back into the pillows, and the hot flood rushes through Phil again, a pure orgasm of emotion. He has to steady himself with a deep breath before settling himself in between Clint’s legs, pushing his knees high and wide, exposing all of him. Clint moves willingly with every touch and that almost floors Phil too. How does he deserve this? How is he this lucky?

Reaching out he grabs the tube still lying by Clint’s hip then runs a hand down the inside of his thigh, tracing soft circles further and further down, over the crease of his groin and lower. “Going to touch you now baby, okay?” Phil waits for Clint’s nod then slips his fingers down the crack of his ass and between to stroke the tight furl of muscle there. 

Which isn’t…

He circles one finger gently round, then rubs his finger tips together. They come away just a little slick. Puzzled, he looks up at Clint, who is staring at the ceiling, his face flaming. “Clint?”

“In the bathroom, before.” he whispers, hoarse “You went to bed and I’d been in your lap, practically, and I was just so…ran the shower so you wouldn’t hear me.” he Phil offers a tiny sheepish smile, “Told you I was thinking about you. Couldn’t sleep for thinking about you.”

 _“Oh my god_. Are you trying to kill me? You’re trying to kill me.” It’s too much, Phil’s brain completely blacks out for a second. The idea of Clint, slicking his fingers, reaching behind himself, thinking of him…it should maybe be tragic, given that he was only on the other side of the wall wanting just as much, but it isn’t, it isn’t, its molten lava searing through his veins and he has to take a second to grip the base of his cock hard before he lets them both down completely. But that picture….he moans into the meat of Clint’s thigh, can’t summon anything for the moment but wordless, endless want.

“Phil?” Clint shifts uneasily, “Phil?”

It’s too big, the feeling is too fucking big and the only way he can deal with it is to open his mouth and let it come pouring out.

“Oh god, Clint, sweetheart, baby, do you have any idea, any fucking _idea_ how hot that is? How hot you are?” He twists, presses his face back into Clint’s thigh, plants hot kisses while he runs his finger round again, feeling the evidence of how Clint had wanted him, wanted him _there_ just that night “jesus christ, you make me crazy, crazy, do you know? I’ve never, never felt…not about anyone else, not ever, fucking _hell_. You’re so, so perfect, so exactly perfect…” he’s struggling to hold anything back, “I have to have you now, I’ve got to have you, can I, can I?” he’s already fumbling for the lube, popping the cap, slicking his fingers even as Clint frantically nods. The first finger slides in easy, nothing but a gentle push, the tiniest intake of breath and he’s inside Clint, _inside him_ , scalding hot and perfect, “look at you, you’re opening up so sweet, so sweet for me. Is this what you were thinking about? When you were touching yourself? Did you imagine it was me, opening you up like this so I could fuck you? So I could slide into you, slick and easy? Did you think of me using my fingers to open you for my cock?” He moves gently in and out as he talks, rubbing slick into Clint’s rim, soothing, stretching.

“ _Yesssss_ ,” Clint hisses when Phil adds a second finger, and it’s both confirmation and acceptance. His hands scrabble uselessly in the sheets and Phil reaches out, grabs one by the wrist and brings it to Clint’s cock, wraps his fingers round himself. A quick drizzle of slick and Clint’s arching up into his own touch, back down into Phil’s. Across his chest a flush starts to spread, rich and red and Clint closes his eyes, whines into it. Phil feels transcendent, he feels like a fucking _god_ and yet a worshipper at the altar all at once,

“Oh, that’s it baby, that’s it, you touch yourself, I want you to feel good while I get you get ready to take me. Look how much you want it. Damn, you’re so gorgeous. So good.” 

Phil twists his hand, scissors his fingers, moving all the while, all the while telling Clint how good he is, how gorgeous, and he watches every tremor, every flicker that crosses his face. A few more twists and Phil sees it, the moment when the burn starts to fade, when the stretch moves away from ache to the promise of ecstasy. It’s magic and exactly what he’s been waiting for. More slick and he slides in his third finger. Clint inhales hard, clenches down tight but doesn’t stop stroking himself and the instant he relaxes Phil curls his fingers, searches and there it is, the smooth bump he’s looking for. He ghosts his fingers across it, the softest of rubs, and Clint jumps, gasping. Once more, harder and he howls and by the forth or fifth time he’s almost sobbing as Phil pushes pleasure through him again and again, “Phil, Phil, please, Phil, _please_.”

He’s ready, Phil’s sure he’s ready and he knows if he waits any longer there’s a good chance one or both of them will just explode. Possibly literally. Carefully, he pulls his fingers back and Clint _whimpers_ , body clutching at the sudden emptiness, hand squeezing at his cock. He opens his eyes, looking wildly for Phil, face pleading, “Phil? Phil?”

“I’m coming baby, you’re alright, I’m coming.” Phil rips off his sweats, tears open the foil packet and hisses as he covers himself, slicks himself up, his poor neglected cock surging into the touch. He bites his lip and resettles between Clint’s legs, levering Clint up a little to raise his hips, hooking one leg up over his arm. He’s not the biggest fan of condoms and they don’t strictly need one given that agents get tested regularly and they’ve both been abstaining but Clint might not enjoy cleanup. Plus it helps, it really does, the pause, the sudden film of cool that offers a little sanity, quieting the part of Phil’s brain that is roaring that he has _Clint Barton_ underneath him, _Clint Barton_ laid out like a fucking buffet, and tempers the desperate desire to just dive in and _take_. Because Clint’s legs are shaking, his eyes are wild with need and trust and Phil needs to do this _right_. He takes a breath, lines himself up, pushes. 

“Ohhhh, _yes…._ ” It could be either of them.

The first inch of him slides into Clint and Phil has to take a moment to keep control while his body screams at him, _hot_ and _soft_ and _so fucking tight_. He kisses Clint’s knee, rests his head against it and pushes again, not thrusting, not really, just rocking gently, minutely, in and out as Clint accepts him inch by slow inch. It’s so difficult and so, so bloody good. The rock, the clench of Clint around him, the shift as Clint’s hand moves over his cock, the sheer heat, it’s everything Phil ever dared imagine and whole lot more besides. Beneath him, Clint _keens_ , and Phil holds his hips, rubs circles into his skin, soothing him with thumbs and words together,

“That’s it, that’s it. Yes Clint, you’re doing so well. God, the way you feel, I’m dying to be in you. Ohhhh,” he rocks again, “That’s it. Take it, take me.” He pulls out a little, nudges back and their moans melt together. “That’s right, that’s it. Ohhhh, baby you’re amazing. You were made for this, made for my cock. You’re so good, ah, so _tight_. I could stay in you forever. Do you feel how hard I am? You make me so hard…” Another rock of his hips and another inch, the need to stay slow, to stay in control is agonising and exquisite. He’s riding on a knife edge and Clint is quaking perfection, shuddering with every move of Phil’s hips, stroking himself while his body opens for Phil’s. The sight of him, the feel, Phil could drown in it but he wants to pull Clint under the tide with him, “Can you feel me? Can you feel how much I want you? God, I want you. Want to fill you up, make you feel me, make you feel so good. Is it good? Is it good baby?” 

Clint nods, panting, and Phil presses deeper again until he groans, “Almost there, almost there now, you’ve almost got me, almost got all of me. Clint, baby, damn, the feel of you on my cock, so perfect. Fuck baby, Clint, you’re so fucking good, just a little, just a little more, god Clint, just…just…” 

He’s losing it, he’s going to lose it, it’s just too good, too much, he can’t… 

Underneath him, Clint moans, snatches a breath, gasps, “Phil, Phil, fuck, _fuck_ Phil, you have to, you have to…”

“What?” whatever it is he can have it, he can have the world, the whole world, “What baby, what?”

Clint cants his hips, reaches up with his free hand, grips Phil’s ass, snarls, “You have to stop. Fucking. _Talking_!” and _pulls_ until Phil bottoms out with a shout, sliding in hard so his hips crash into Clint’s. Clint screams, throws his head back and _comes_ , streaking himself with white, pulse after pulse splashing, rippling around Phil so hard that he can’t even move until its over, until Clint’s jerking himself through the aftershocks moaning, “god, your mouth Phil, oh god, your dirty fucking mouth...” 

It’s incredible, almost incomprehensible and Phil is _ruined_. He ruts forward, once, twice maybe three times and the world turns itself inside out, he turns himself inside out and he’s shouting wordlessly, spending himself inside Clint until the very last drop of his soul is exhausted.

The panting silence that follows is very, very loud. Phil wants to stay, to stay in this perfect closeness but his arms are trembling and Clint’s shaking so he pulls back gently, wincing when Clint winces, dealing quickly with the condom and collapsing back onto the mattress. A second later Clint rolls over to him so that they’re lying face to face. He’s smiling, a spaced-out, dopey grin that Phil’s pretty sure is mirrored on his own face. They drift together, meet in a soft, exhausted kiss.

“Christ.” Clint murmurs, reaching out, fingertips grazing Phil’s top lip, “Agent Coulson. The mouth on you. I would never have guessed.”

Phil feels his cheeks heat, knowing that it had been a lot, but that he’d meant every word, “I have no idea where most of that came from. I don’t…well. That much. Usually. Sorry?”

“Don’t be.” Clint sighs, “Don’t ever be, I liked it. It was hella sexy. And of course, I am very inspirational.” He says it with his cheeky twinkle and Phil flaps a reprimanding hand his way which makes him twist quickly away and then suddenly freeze, “Oh…” Clint stretches experimentally, all his attention going internal for a second, then he smiles and groans, flopping carefully onto his back again and staring at the ceiling, “Ohhhh. I can still feel you. So good. Is it always like that?”

Phil’s still a little post-orgasm loopy, brain-to-mouth filter not fully engaged, “Maybe not always over that quick…”

“Oh.” Clint’s satisfied smile crumples. “Oh. Right. Sorry. It was just a bit, overwhelming… I didn’t mean to be…sorry.”

His little face, the fallen expression cuts Phil to the core.

“God, no!” Phil clambers over to Clint and kisses him fiercely, “Seeing you give it up like that? For me? It was incredible. Don’t you dare apologise for the hottest thing that has ever happened to me. Do you hear Clint? Don’t you dare.”

When Clint gets his mouth back he quirks his lips, raises an eyebrow. “Ever?”

“Ever.” Phil repeats firmly.

“Alright.” Clint chuckles, the smile thankfully back. “So, we’ve established then that we’re both awesome at biology.” He yawns. “Which is weird, because I failed it at school. Mind you if the teacher had looked like you…Pretty sure I could ace an exam right now.”

Something about the joke hits Phil a little hollow but his bones are filling up with warm lead, dragging him down. “Maybe I’ll grade you in the morning.” Thankfully the drawer has wet wipes and he tosses them to Clint to clear himself off, they’ve both had enough showers tonight. He wants to sleep, but the thought occurs to him, “Are you…I mean, will you stay?” He shouldn’t presume, because this was…he’s not sure what it was. Except completely fabulous. 

Clint blinks. “How is that even a question? I said I wanted to hold you Phil. I didn’t mean just for five minutes of fucking.” His cheeks bloom pink again, “As long as…that’s something you want?”

“It is. It absolutely is.” Phil kisses him again, and maybe his heart is too full of feelings because they slip easily onto his lips, into his eyes. He kisses Clint softly, carefully, passing them across and seeing an answering warmth cross Clint’s face, “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about…. I want to hold you too. For as long as you’ll let me.”

“Please.” Clint says, “Long as you want. Not going anywhere.” He settles back, pulls up the covers, snuggles up close, “Have to warn you though, I’m a bit of an octopus.”

There’s that rush of blood to the heart again. Phil grins even as he’s pulling Clint closer, “I doubt that will be a problem.”

>>===>>

Despite the octopus warning there’s a part of Phil that expects to wake up alone in the morning. He dreams it briefly, the empty bed where Clint should be, the awkward conversation over breakfast where Clint tells him that it was just a hook-up, just an experiment, just biology, after all. 

It’s cold.

It seems real.

But when he does stir for real it’s because Clint’s plastered up behind him, roasting hot, chasing away the cold, burning out his doubts, planting hungry kisses up his neck. Phil turns his head to meet them and Clint takes his mouth like a man in a fever. It’s a more than satisfactory way to wake.

“Well good morning Mr Enthusiastic.” Phil laughs when he has his tongue back again, “Have you been awake long?”

“A little while,” Clint groans, “just watching you sleep. Didn’t mean to wake you, I swear, but…” He tips his hips and rocks against Phil’s ass, “you were so beautiful and I want you Phil, want you so bad,” he rocks again and his cock, already solid and burning, presses hard against Phil’s crack, “Do you? Can I?”

Phil has no doubt what he’s asking, and absolutely no doubt about his answer, “I do. And yes, baby. Absolutely, yes.”

The lube, lost in the sheets, takes a while to find between kisses and neither of them can stand to wait much longer after they have it. So Phil preps himself quickly while Clint alternates between kissing him and watching, wide-eyed, as he stretches himself out. It’s a bit hurried perhaps but there’s a feeling rushing him on, a sense that now is infinitely not soon enough for him to have Clint inside him. To claim him that way too. Besides, Phil knows how to be safe, likes a bit of burn and when he puts himself on his hands and knees and Clint actually growls, “Ohh, you’re incredible. Incredible, Phil.” it’s totally, totally worth it.

“Thank you baby,” he grins over his shoulder, “So, how about you get up here and make good use of my hard work by fucking me stupid?”

Clint doesn’t wait to be asked twice. They don’t use a condom this time, at Phil’s request. They know they’re both clean and he doesn’t mind a little mess so why bother? The extra dash of heat, the touch of Clint skin-on-skin as he pushes into Phil bare is exquisite and they both loose their breath for a while. It takes a little lining up, a little adjustment and a little persuasion but soon enough Clint’s slamming into Phil hard and fast. When Phil yelps he leans forward to grip his shoulder, to snap his hips again and grin, “I’m glad some of my skills translate.”

Phil snorts, “I’m sure lots of them do. We can find out. Now stop talking and _fuck me._ ”

Clint obliges and in very short order Phil comes, gloriously, messily, striping all over the bed. Clint pauses at that, but Phil barks, “Don’t you dare, Barton! I will tell you when I’m done!” and he surges back again. Phil pushes back against him with every thrust until their bodies are slamming together in a hot crash of flesh and desperation. Clint’s hips start to stutter and he’s pulling at Phil’s shoulder so Phil rises up on his knees, presses his back to Clint’s chest and locks his arms back and around him, dragging him as close and deep as possible. Clint shakes and wails, his teeth bright stars set into Phil’s throat as he fills him up hot and slick, exactly as he wants. 

It’s perfect. Again.

Phil hums happily when Clint kisses his neck afterward. There must be distinct bite marks that he can’t wait to see in the mirror. He leans and draws himself forward, away from Clint, hissing in tired delight at the slide. When he looks over his shoulder, Clint’s eyes are riveted to where they’re slipping apart, a sort of awe on his face. He runs one finger lightly round Phil’s rim, feeling the traces of himself, and groans. “Oh god, Phil, you’re so hot. I mean, I knew you were hot, but you’re just _super, super hot._ ”

Phil sniggers, “Excellent after-action report there agent. Very succinct.”

“Oh, shut it you.” Clint makes a face, “Your gorgeous ass has fried my brain.” He swats at said ass and Phil reciprocates, which turns into a quick, stupid, giggly fight that feels more like them than anything else has, that involves a lot of rolling about and tickling until they both end up red-cheeked and breathless.

Eventually they lie side by side, huddled close to avoid the wet patch (patches), fingers trailing across each other’s skin, both apparently reluctant to let the moment go.

Clint sighs, soft and contented. “So,” he asks, finger tip spinning idly in Phil’s chest hair, “apparently you can keep going even after you’ve…y’know.”

“Come?” Phil fills in because Clint’s coyness is adorable, “Yes. Some men can’t, but I usually enjoy it. You might. Sometimes,” he drops his voice low, conspiratorial, “you can come twice.”

Clint’s eyebrows rise, “Twice?”

“Twice. Or more.”

“More? Fuck.” Clint shakes his head, “Damn. I have got a lot to learn.” Then he grins, offers Phil a kiss, “How much can we get through before extraction?”

Phil takes the kiss, laughs at the enthusiasm, “Two days? A fair bit, don’t you think?”

“What I think,” Clint says, settling back into a plan and sounding very happy about it, “is that it’s a good job this place has two beds. Because you are totally going to teach me every last thing we have time for before they extract us, really lay a foundation for further research back at home. And we’ve ruined this bed already.” 

“So we have.” Phil smiles, imagining more, long, soft hours coaxing pleasure out of Clint, here and _back at home_. His heart jumps at Clint’s implication, the easy assumption that this is going to happen again, keep happening. His cock would probably do the same if it wasn’t currently so tired. So many things a body can do, and he wants to do them all. Twice. Then he looks around at the sweat-soaked, come-streaked sheets and groans. “Damn. I’m going to have to tip agent services an extortionate amount aren’t I?”

It’s Clint’s turn to laugh and he leans in, kisses the tip of Phil’s nose. “Yes. And I’m going to have to hear a whole load of ‘I told you so’ from Nat. I guess we’ll just have to be brave soldiers.” 

Phil finds his hand, squeezes it, “Absolutely worth it though. To have this.”

“Totally worth it to get this.” Clint agrees softly, “For us to finally get together.”

Together. Phil stills, turning the word over. It’s so huge, so new, and yet perfectly natural. More than halfway to easy, like always. He’d been so afraid for such a long time but since moments after waking up he’s not even considered any other outcome remotely possible. Of course they’re together.

“Phillip…” Clint says teasingly, seemingly reading his thoughts, “We are together now, right? We’re not going to keep pretending that this is a one-time, physical thing for either of us? You know I like you more than that, and I’m _fairly_ sure you like me. So can we dump the ‘just biology’ thing?” 

There’s a faint but confident smile playing round his mouth, and he’s still holding tight to Phil’s hand, so Phil knows that he knows the answer already. After the night they’ve just had, the days they’ve just promised each other? There’s no way he wouldn’t know. But he still deserves a proper reply. 

So. 

“Just biology?” Phil repeats, smiling back, “No, you're right, this is absolutely not that.” he pulls Clint in close, wraps him up and kisses him sweetly for the millionth time. There’s a four letter word burning brightly between them and while Phil knows it’s probably far too soon for him to say it he’s really very sure Clint can hear it anyway. “This thing we’ve got here? Baby, this is _chemistry_.”

>>===>>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a minute to let me know what you thought? Please do! :) Thanks for reading x


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